


Renaissance

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe -Historical, Banking, Finance, Intrigue, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-02 14:50:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8671678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: Italy 1437, Arturo Draghi moves from Prato to Florence for the opening of a new branch of the family bank. He expects Gaius to see to all financial and political affairs, but instead, due to old age, the man recruits his nephew, Merlino, to act as Arturo's apprentice and virtual factotum. Merlino's offhand manner,  questionable sartorial choices, and insouciant attitude seem to make him the worst candidate for such a job. But nonetheless, for some reason that makes little sense to Arturo himself, he takes him on. From then on Merlino proves his mettle in more ways than one.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Camelittle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/gifts).



> (i) Dear Camelittle, you wanted a story with Arthur as a merchant banker. Since I know so little about modern economics, I sort of transplanted lock, stock and barrel in the early Renaissance. Not that I'm an expert at that either, but you know... I hope you don't mind my little time jump. I also hope this world works for you and that it brings you some joy over the winter holidays. Wishing you the best of those, with sparkling snow, and hot mugs, and a lot of everything that's the best,  
> your secret santa.  
> (ii) Many thanks to my equally secret beta, for her painstaking work, which righted all my mistakes. You're a thousand shades of brilliant.

Florence, 1437

The carriage, drawn by four white horses bearing plumes attached to their manes, stopped rolling before palazzo Draghi. The door swung outwards and two liveried attendants darted forward. They wore yellow and blue, brown stockings and leather shoes that pointed outwards. With ease they lowered the step and Arturo alighted. The road wasn't paved yet. He had yellow grit underfoot, gravelly and sticky. That was going to have to be seen to. He didn't like it in the least. He wanted a cobbled piazza before the entrance to his offices, like the Medici had before their palazzo. That was what Arturo had in mind for his family; to honour it with the beauty and stateliness of the edifice that represented them. To make their renown palpable by way of brick and mortar.

While the attendants effaced themselves with a bow, Gaius appeared in the doorway to Palazzo Draghi. “Ah, Arturo, my boy, it's such a pleasure to see you've had a safe journey.” Back a little stooped, he shuffled towards Arturo and placed a hand on his back. “But come inside, come inside. Come look at your new Florence headquarters.”

Arturo said, “I will by and by, but tell me first if you're well.” Gaius was such an old friend of the family, his ties with Arturo's father going back decades, he couldn't imagine not asking after the old man's health. It not only behove him, he wanted to know. “How has Florence agreed with you?”

“As well as such a big city can,” Gaius said, turning them around to enter the palazzo. “I'm fine enough otherwise. Or as fine as these aching old bones allow me to be.”

From the street, they passed into the inner courtyard. It was colonnaded, light with shadows playing in the spaces between arches. Mullioned windows looked on a marbled cortile at the bottom of which stood a statue. It was a man, beautiful in the way of the ancients, with a sublime body sculpted out of rock, sinew cording in funnels of stone, the softness of hair and flesh highlighted by alterations in the marble. It was a man to yearn for.

Moving away from the courtyard, Gaius led him through a series of chambers. They were suitably lofty, with large windows, tapestries hanging from the walls at intervals, wide chimney pieces surmounted by rampant lions and ceiling frescoed with depictions of Judgement Day and the Annunciation.

“I hope you like your new house?” Gaius asked as he briskly stepped along a large gallery.

“I do.” Arturo couldn't as yet summon much enthusiasm for the empty chambers and corridors, but he acknowledged that his new home served his family's purpose. Moreover, he couldn't doubt the skills of the artisans and artists that had worked to make of the palazzo such a noble habitation. “I hope to meet the builders.”

“The architect is very esteemed here in Florence, he’s now working on the cathedral,” Gaius said. “His name's Brunelleschi.”

“I'll make time to thank him personally.” As a finance man, Arturo had only the most basic understanding of art, but he could recognise talent and expertise when he saw it. “Whenever the man's ready.”

“I suppose now you'd rather see the counting house.” Gaius moved them to another set of doors. Which gave access to a short walkway that led into the offices. “That's what you're here for, after all.”

Unlike the private quarters of his new abode, this part of the house bustled with people. Some went to and fro brandishing parchments. Others sat at tables filling ledgers or taking notes with long quills. A few counted coins. By their elbows sat piles of ducats, florins, marks and quattrinos, each with a different shape to them, each with a different quantity of precious metal in them. Silver and gold ingots vanished behind the lids of strong boxes and safes while others were tallied off and carried out to the counter.

“As you can see everything is already ship shape,” Gaius said. “Fully up and running.”

Arturo had no doubt of that. Before this Gaius had run their counting house in Prato and the one in Pisa right after. Without him, the Draghi bank wouldn't quite be what it now is. Though generations of Draghis made it what it is, it was Gaius' competence that allowed them to sail through their worst days, the near exile they were threatened with in Prato when their family became too powerful. Arturo's father would have gone on a scorched earth rampage. But Gaius advised against that and that was the reason why things were later smoothed over. “I had no doubt you would make a success of it. Now we only have to make it the first bank in Florence.”

“The Medicis will be very much against it.” Gaius gave off an amused snort. “And I won't be able to assist you in every instance.”

Arturo rounded on Gaius. “What do you mean?”

“I've already expended a lot of energy on this new venture,” Gaius said. “I've done so because the task was important to your family.” With a hand on Arturo's arm signalling his intent, Gaius reprised walking. “But at my age I can't quite be expected to go on at this rhythm.”

Arturo had of course noticed Gaius' stoop, his weariness when moving. But he'd always thought his old friend would be there throughout, assist him in his efforts. “Gaius, I can't do without you.”

“I'm not fully retiring.” Gaius led him up a staircase. “But I won't follow you around all the time.”

Arturo didn't need Gaius for that. But he did need to consult him. “I just need your expertise on the more political matters.”

“Arturo.” Gaius sighed deeply. “You will always have that. But you must rely on someone else for doing all the running about.”

“I wouldn't be able to trust them.” Not with family secrets, not with diplomatic ventures, not with the trading they did with cardinals and bishops, with the Roman curia. These were all transaction that needed discretion. In Tuscany there were few people who knew how to be close-mouthed. “You know I won't.”

“You will trust this one,” Gaius said, showing him into a roomlet shaped like the apse of a church and on whose side a narrow window opened. It threw light on the man sitting at the desk. “This is Merlino, my nephew.”

Merlino was a lanky man with cheekbones like a bodkin and a profusion of dark hair that didn't behave in any way that aped the latest fashion but rather defied it. His clothes, scarcely good enough for a representative of the Draghis, looked motley rather than well put together, their fabric coarse and worn. When he saw Arturo he sat up, scattering the papers he'd been working on. On the precious vellum there were ink blots and scratched out words. “Oh, Gaius, I was just calculating the interest Cardinal Bergozzi owes us.”

“That's good, my boy.” Gaius placated his nephew's bumbling attitude with a held up hand. “But that can wait now. I want to introduce you to the owner.”

Merlino cleaned his hands on his doublet. “Oh yes. You did say he would turn up.” He reached a hand out to Arturo, beaming all the way. “Merlino, nice to meet you.”

Arturo couldn't say that Merlino wasn't nice or affable. He was and that was certainly pleasing, flattering. But his manners were appalling considering he was dealing with a superior and the way he presented himself lacking. “Why are you dressed as a jester?”

Merlino's dimples disappeared. “As a jester?”

“Your outfit is ill-assembled and darned in places of all things.” Arturo couldn't refrain from pointing that out. It was so glaringly obvious. “You can't work for us and go about like that.”

Merlino pawed at his clothing, his eyes wide and bulging. “I'll have you know that my mother made these and she's the best seamstress in the whole of Montalcino.”

Arturo scoffed. “That's not enough.” It seemed evident and he wondered why Gaius hadn't made it known to Merlino. “As my apprentice, you're going to interact with the elite of Florence society, with cardinals, papal legates, representatives of great guilds and the richest of merchants. You can't face them like that.”

“Does that mean you are taking him on after all?” Gaius sounded excited.

“Gaius, I can't work for him.” Merlino turned to Gaius. “Not if he insults my mother's work as he did.”

Gaius arched an eyebrow. “You will do what I tell you. Your mother would be pained if you lost a job in the city only to defend her workmanship.”

Chastised, Merlino bowed his head.

Gaius turned to Arturo. “I hope you can forgive my nephew.”

With that sentence and that tone, Gaius had just made it impossible for Arturo to do anything other than grant him this boon. “I will. But he will have to make more of an effort.”

Merlino perked his head up and made as if to speak, but then he bit his tongue.

Given that Merlino was biddable enough to understand when to rein himself in, Arturo said, “Be at my quarters tomorrow at nine.”

*****

 

His mother turned to him, a bird perching on her finger, her gown ballooning under her on the grass, the sun shining in her golden hair. He toddled towards her. He could see his hands outstretched.. He wanted to go to her play with the bird, touch its soft plumage and watch her smile with pride in his eyes. He was going to be so good, she was going to praise him.

The door clanged open and Merlino burst in, “Arturo,” he said, his hair in wild disarray, his fingers black with ink, brandishing a parchment that crackled as he moved. “I've found inconsistencies in the balance accounts.”

Arthur sat up in bed, spluttering, the tassel of a coverlet in his mouth. He spat it out and said, “What are you talking about and why are you in my room?”

“You told me to come.” Merlino trotted over to the bed. 

“Yes, at a decent hour!” The sun was flooding the room but that didn't signify. Arthur hadn't breakfasted yet. “Not now.”

“In preparation for our meeting I spent the night looking over the books.” Merlino persisted in failing to get the point. “I went over them with a fine tooth comb and found there were errors.”

“All books have minor errors,” Arturo said, “that's why we review them every quarter.”

“This is not a minor slip, Arturo.” Without any invitation, Merlino sat on Arturo's bed. He held up the parchment and pointed. “We bought shipments of silver in the last two months, right? And paid for them in bullion.”

“Yes.” Arturo could read an account book just as well as Merlino could. Accountancy was his bread and butter.

“Well, for some reason we received less silver than we should have had,” Merlino said. “For the amount of bullion we put forth, we should have got a thousand pounds of silver in two deliveries.”

“But we didn't?” Arturo studied Merlino's face, his features. 

“No, we got a little less,” Merlino said. “I checked.”

“And?”

“Whoever made the transaction made sure we were given a little less silver in return for our money,” Merlino shook his head in disapproval. “It was cleverly done too. They made sure the difference between expected and given quantity was so small barely anyone would notice. That way that they could do it twice.”

Arturo sat up in bed. He slapped Merlino's shoulder. “Well done, Merlino.”

“You're proud?” Merlino beamed.

Arturo stepped out of bed. He was naked, for he slept without any cumbersome night apparel. “Let's not go that far.” He put on a tunic. “Let's say that you did well and leave it at that.”

Merlino watched Arturo dress and blushed, looking away. “What are you doing?”

“We're going to find the culprit, Merlino.” Arturo pulled on hose. Not having Merlino's gaze on him felt somehow odd. “And when we do, I'm going to sack him.”

Once Arturo was dressed, they both left the room as men on a mission.

 

******

Porto Pisano stretched along the mouth of the Arno River. Two tall and rounded towers guarded it while a third loomed out on an islet at sea. Seagulls whirled round it, calling to each other, gliding downwards to pluck out fish from the sea. Galleys, carracks and caravels sailed upstream, towards Pisa, their white sails broad and unfurled, their thick masts reaching for the sky.

As the sea and river mouth were clogged with vessels so the quay bustled with people and carts. Sailors emptied the contents of their ships' holds onto horse-led conveyances. They walked the docks or in and out of warehouses. Their doors opened from time to time to eject donkeys and horses laden with baskets and saddlebags. Humans had to wheel round to avoid them.

“Tell me again why we're here so early in the morning,” Merlino said, blinking at the sun going up in the sky. “Because I can't fathom it.”

“I thought you were born on a farm.” Arturo was sure he had heard something like it. Wasn't Gaius’ sister peasant born?

“Not exactly. I mean I come from a rural area but my mum was a seamstress, not a labourer.”

“And your father?”

Merlino squinted at the quay. “You haven't answered my original question.”

“We're here--” Arturo released a big breath. “--because we're meeting Luca Albizzi.”

Merlino drew up an eyebrow. “And who's this gentleman?”

Of course Merlino didn't know. He was a foreigner to Florence and apparently to politics as well. “He's a member of the Albizzi family.” Arturo could still read incomprehension on Merlino's face. “And as such a powerful man.”

Merlino nodded now. “But how can he help you?”

“At this point it's me who can help him.” Arturo had considered this venture from all angles and was more and more sure it was the right one. “He needs money to stay afloat with his galley venture.”

“Is that a pun?” Merlino smiled at him. It was a crooked, toothy smile, yet mirthful and full of joy.

“No.” Though perhaps Arturo could confess to some such intent. He'd wanted to make his apprentice smile more. It helped counter the seriousness of the talks awaiting them. “As it is, Luca trades with Northern Europe, providing the textile industry with plenty of raw materials.” He didn't want to bore Merlino by listing them. “But he wants to expand.”

“Which way?” Merlino asked. “Change of product or destination?”

“A bit of both.” Arturo led Merlino down the quay, walking him towards the tallest galley in the port. “He wants to have access to the Levantine market, the way Venice does, selling spices.”

“I can see how your help matters to him.” Merlino stopped short and placed a hand on his arm. “But I don't see how he can help you.”

“You really are not a Florentine, Merlino.” Arturo said that in a put upon tone but, truth be told, Arturo wasn't angry. He just wanted to vocalise his mock annoyance. “Luca Albizzi is the brother of Rinaldo, the man who got Cosimo de Medici exiled.”

“I remember hearing about that a few years ago.” Merlino tapped the side of his head. “But then Cosimo returned.”

“And now he's in power and all the Albizzi bar Luca are exiled.” That, Arturo thought, was a fair summation of the situation.

“If the Albizzis are no longer in power.” Merlino's forehead creased. “Then why are you lending Luca the money?”

“Because in spite of his family's allegiances, Luca is a friend of Cosimo's.” Arturo had discussed this with his father plenty of times. “And ties to him are going to be advantageous to us.”

“You want to cosy up with the Medicis?” Merlin's frown didn't smooth out. “I thought they were your rivals.”

“Partly. If Luca can make them my friends, all the better,” Arturo said. “If he can't, and he should become an ally of mine, then I'll have cheated them of a friend.”

Merlino's eyes glinted with understanding. “You want to pit him against the Medicis.”

Arturo didn't think Merlino would betray him. Merlino seemed trustworthy to the bone, one of those men who couldn't even conceive underhandedness. But he still couldn't spell it out when he was out in public. You never knew who was out there, ready to overhear and set tongues wagging. “I want to play my cards right.”

They met Luca in the Captain's cabin. It lay stern-wise and had large windows overlooking a choppy Tyrrenian Sea. Maps and sextants lay on the large oak table that filled the span of the room. Strongboxes sat on top of drawers, on benches and on the floor. Some were shut, but some lay open, ingots shining in plain view.

“Arturo Draghi!” Luca Albizzi said when Arturo sauntered over to his desk. “Such a pleasure to have you on board the Santa Cristina.”

Arturo shook Luca Albizzi's hand from over the table. “Likewise. I hope you haven't been waiting long.”

“Oh no.” Albizzi waved his hand in denial. “No, your visit is timely. You can rest assured of that.”

“In that case,” Arturo said, moving a chair about. “I suppose we can discuss those matters you wanted me here for.”

“Yes, yes indeed.” Albizzi sat back and gestured for Arturo to do the same. Then his gaze moved onto Merlino. “Perhaps your page boy can take a tour of the boat whilst we discuss business.”

“I'm not a page boy,” Merlino said.

At that Arturo stepped in. “Merlino is my apprentice. And trusted.”

Merlino turned to Arturo and flashed him a winning smile that lit up his eyes. “As he said,” he told Albizzi.

Albizzi was too smooth and well-bred to make much of a fuss over that. He told Merlino to make himself comfortable and smiled politely at him even while Merlino twice dropped the stool he'd meant to carry over. There was a shade of wariness in Albizzi's eyes that didn't die out even as they started talks.

“As I understand it,” Arturo said, opening the dances himself, “you find yourself in need of more funds.”

“That my family's fortunes have taken a turn for the worse is no secret.” Albizzi held up his open palms. “That's too well known a fact for me to hide.”

“I never thought you came to this transaction with a plan to hide anything.” Arturo could be conciliatory too when he wanted to be. “Quite the contrary.”

“Thank you.” Albizzi acknowledged Arturo's concession with a nod. “But I want you to know I'm by no means destitute.”

The state of the ship and the contents of the cabin had told Arturo as much. He'd never clapped eyes on a more ship-shape vessel. Her timbers gleamed, her sails were new, and her hull looked newly caulked. Considering that Albizzi had several galleys, he could tell he wasn't broke. “You mentioned, in fact, expanding.”

“So I did.” Albizzi smiled with the ease of renewed confidence. “There's room to do more. We could tap into the east. Get access to the silk road. Make more of Florence and Porto Pisano.”

“And go against Venice.” Arturo had already decided what to do on the matter of Luca Albizzi's request, but that didn't mean he didn't want him wriggling on the hook for a while. “And all her might.”

“That's dangerous,” Merlino said, catching his gaze. There was a sparkle in his eyes that suggested he was on board, that he'd understood the game Arturo was playing. “Your honour should watch out.”

“Merlino's not wrong.” Arturo lifted his shoulders in a move that fell slightly short of a shrug. “It is.”

Albizzi conceded with a nod. “Venetian friendships allowed Cosimo back from his exile. As far as politics go, the doge can interfere with Florentine affairs, true. He could theoretically make your life difficult. But I bid you not think of politics.”

This wasn't good enough of a plan and both Arturo and Albizzi knew it. Conceding now would be eminently wrong.

Merlino caught up on that and said. “They'll go against any perceived competition.”

“True.” Albizzi inclined is head. “But they'll only compete commercially, and not in any way underhandedly. I can take them on.”

“How?” Albizzi wanted to start a Venetian-type enterprise against the might of Venice herself. It would not be easy, Arturo could see that. He was sure Luca had an ace up his sleeve, but he couldn't see which one it was till he was told and before that he wouldn't agree to anything. It wouldn't do. It would make him look gullible. “That's key.”

“While it's true I'm trying to take the wind out of their sails by trading along the same routes and distributing the same products, I also intend to diversify.” The corners of Albizzi's mouth turned up. “The Venetians prefer selling cloth on the Northern markets. I'm going to provide the merchants of Flanders and England with wool.”

“That seems like a wise tactic.”

“Which you're going to back up?” Albizzi leaned forward, his hand curling around the rim of the desk he sat at.

Before answering, Arturo exchanged looks with Merlino. “What do you think?”

“I think, sir,” Merlino said, “that we should back Messere Albizzi's venture.”

Arturo took his time before replying. He sighed and took in the cabin, then Albizzi. When a suitable interval had passed, he spoke again. “I think I will put down two hundred florins to begin with and more when the profits start raining in.”

“That's fair by me.” Mr Albizzi rose to his feet and stuck his hand out. “Let's shake on it.”

Arturo did. The drawing up of contracts would follow soon.

*****

Arturo took a sip from his goblet. It was tall and round and had rubies embedded a little below the rim. Because of its beauty Arturo liked drinking from it. His enjoyment did come from any base source such as appreciating its monetary value. It was the craftsmanship that had gone into its making that warmed his soul. Arturo's father would think differently. He'd acquired plenty of art for the sake of owning it rather than admiring it. But that was him and not something Arturo could change about him. For himself he could do things differently.

Holding onto his own tankard Merlino paced up and down the chamber. “You were really great yesterday.”

While Arturo was flattered he couldn't let it get to his head. “I just conducted business the way I know how to.”

“Far be it from me to praise the rich and powerful without cause,” Merlino said. “But you did more than that.”

“I did what I was raised to do.” In spite of his protestations, Arturo's heart warmed down to its very centre.

“Well, you were quite clever.” Merlino toasted him with his tankard. “Making him sweat a little before you sealed the deal.”

Arturo blushed. “It was only politic.”

“It was downright brilliant.” Merlino looked at him as if he was seeing an entirely different man from the one he first met at the start of the week. There was admiration in his gaze, a latent, warm fire.

Arturo coughed. “Well, if you really think I taught you something, then perhaps you'd like to come to another meeting.”

“You've got another such mission?” Merlino's eyebrows twitched with interest.

“This one isn't quite so sensitive,” Arturo said, “but we could gain more acclaim if it went through.”

“Then I'm in.”

*****

The sun bathed the streets of Florence with a golden sheen. Water rippled out of fountains standing at the centre of round and square piazzas. Women, kerchiefs wrapped around their heads, filled jars from the spigots while barefoot urchins played around them. Crooked trees grew over benches on which old men sat. In the shadow of the green-speckled cathedral, processions of friars moved. In their wake a group of flagellants crossed a street, striking their backs with a flail to atone for their sins.

Merlino made a face and followed Arturo into a thicket of streets lined with houses that crowded one onto the other. They stopped by a tall and large one hewn out of golden stone, with a red tiled roof that sloped as a measure against the snow and sleet the city would see in winter. A servant wearing a dirty apron opened the door. “Who are you?”

Giving an amused snort, Merlino replied, “the envoys from the Draghi bank.”

The maid didn't seem very impressed, but she did step aside to let them in. Through the kitchens, they were led into the parlour and from thence to the piano nobile. Behind a door, the maid said, lay the master bedroom. The room wasn't large but the bed was of solid oak and the draperies sturdy if not fine. The man that lay on it looked haggard and his jowls sagged, his eyes having a solid yellowish tint to them. His hands were swollen and heavy; bearing the marks of rings that weren't there. They rested atop the sheet which covered him from chest to feet. When Merlino and Arturo entered, the old man startled, coughed, spat phlegm in a pewter dish, then set his eyes on them. “Who are you? What do you want from me?”

“Messer Donati,” Arturo said, indicating himself and Merlin, “we're from the Draghi bank. ”

“Ah the Draghi people.” Bartolaccio Donati slumped back in bed. “I had an appointment with you.”

Arturo could see how Donati, an old man, could have forgotten. “We had sensitive business to discuss.”

“The letters of credit.” Donati seemed now to remember. “Of course, of course.” He gestured wildly. “They're in that strong box. They key is under my bed.”

Merlino made for the bed and Arturo for the strongbox.

“And you.” Donati sat up in bed, pointed at the maid, and glared. “Away with you, you busybody!”

The woman gulped and disappeared in a flurry of skirts.

Having carried the box over, Arturo placed it on a low table standing in front of the bed. That way Donati could see what they were doing with it. Merlino came over with a big bronze key, which he fit into the lock. Since the strong box's closing mechanism was rusty, Merlino had to fight to wrest the lid open. But at last it came up, revealing the contents of the box. There were two letters in it, one folded a-top of the other. Arturo read the first while Merlino perused the second. Arturo's was your usual letter of credit.

_To the Bankers,  
Correspondents of the Bardi Bank named in our Letter of Indication_

_Gentlemen:_

_We beg to introduce to you and commend to your usual courtesies, the bearer, M Donati, in whose favour we have opened a Credit to an aggregate amount of 3000 solids, French Currency available by sight drafts on the Bardi Bank, Nice, which we request you will negotiate deducting your charges, if any._

The lettering at the top was the emblem of the Bardi bank. The letter itself was made out in Nice, ten years ago and allowed for remittance of funds to be repaid in any foreign city for the equivalent in foreign currency of three thousand deniers.

“Quite a lot of bullion.” Arturo whistled. “But the date is old.”

“The note is still good,” Donati said. “There's no expiry date to promissory notes.”

That was true. Still, this was a complicated affair. Because of the lapse of time between the emission of the letter and the cashing in on it, more questions arose than the simple calculation of the exchange rate. “I will have to make a copy of this and have my accountants go over it.”

“I thought a letter of credit was payable at sight.”

In some cases they certainly were but certainly in more straightforward ones. They'd have to pour over this one much more closely. Arturo would have to have Gaius go over it with a fine-tooth comb. “We need a bit more time than that,” he said, “but you'll have your money within the week.”

“I think not, Arturo,” Merlino said as he scowled at the other letter of credit. “This one may be very well done but it's still a forgery.”

“A forgery!” It could not be; Arturo had seen the seal and it was that of the Bardi bank of Nice. There was no doubt about it. “But the document is genuine.”

“Indeed it is.” Merlino held it up against the light of a candle. “The heading and seals are real and so's the letter.”

“I don't see what you mean.” Arturo felt the lines dug deep on his brow. “If they're all real—” Like Merlino, Arturo had every reason to think they were. “Then how could it be a forgery?”

“It's quite a simple trick really,” Merlino said, gesturing him over. When Arturo got to him, he showed him the letter. “The document is genuine enough, it's the details that aren't.”

“This is false!” Donati spluttered into coughing. “This is a filthy lie.”

Merlino whirled on him, an eyebrow up in a way eerily reminiscent of Gaius. “It's not.” He pointed at a spot on the paper. “Here, that's the name of the bearer. It looks as if it reads Bartolaccio Donati, but it actually says Bertrand Dieudonné. You can see it, if you hold the paper like this. . .” He angled the paper against the light source behind him. “You can see the letters were changed. Some were kept while some were curled and erased and made to look like they spell out the word Donati.”

Now that he was wise to them, Arturo could see some of the alterations Merlino had pointed out. He could spot the extra curls that had been added to the letters to morph them into others and he could make out the traces of new ink atop older. “You are right.”

“And here,” Merlino's fingers ran under a line of script. “The sum mentioned. You can see it's been changed to add a zero.”

“Yes, indeed.” Arturo looked past Merlino and to Bartolaccio Donati, at whom he glared. “You were trying to swindle us, sir.”

Donati said, “Hell and damnation, that's not true.”

“Then how do you explain these forged sections?” Arturo was no fool and he didn't appreciate being taken for one. “They've been tampered with. The fraud may escape a cursory scrutiny but they won't stand an attentive one.”

“I didn't do any of that!” Donati spat the words out together with some spittle. “And anyway you can't prove it was me who did it.”

Donati was unfortunately right. If Arturo got this to court, presented this to the Signoria tribunal, he couldn't prove the old man had tinkered with the original letter. Someone else could have done it. It didn't stand to reason to think so, but he couldn't persuade a magistrate of the truth of it. “Perhaps. But rest assured neither I nor any serious banker--” Arturo would make sure to spread the news. “--will ever honour that letter of credit.”

“You can't.” Donati showed them his fists. But then he started coughing again and soon he was too weak to do much threatening. “That money is mine.”

Arturo could argue about this for as many hours as the day was long, but he didn't see the point. Donati would insist his letter of credit was genuine and that he was owed thousands of Florins. Arturo himself would never pay them up. He'd contact the Bardis, however, to shine light onto the matter. “I wish you a good day, Messere Donati.”

So saying he left the premises with Merlino in tow. They were at the bottom of the lane leading to the Donati household when Arturo stopped short. “That was a close call.”

“Would losing those thousands have broken you financially?” Merlino asked, concern shining in his eyes.

“No, of course not.” The Draghi bank was much more solvent financially. Arturo's own patrimony, independent from the family assets, amounted to a hundred times that. “But the figure we would have cut, that. . . that would have been far more damaging than any monetary loss.”

“Good thing I noticed then.” Merlino winked.

If this were any other person, Arturo would put his apprentice in his place, even if they'd saved him from a financial faux-pas. But the way Merlino had teased him had nothing untoward about it. He wasn't trying to put Arturo down, thereby raising himself in the eyes of his employer. He was joking and by god was it welcome. “It took you a while.”

Merlino spluttered. “It only took me a couple of minutes. The time to read the false letter from top to bottom. It's more than you did!”

“How do you know I wasn't testing you?”

Merlino stopped ambling and turning around so he was facing Arturo rather than standing by his side. “You're having me on.” He squinted at him. “You didn't know.”

Arturo preferred not to answer that, not explicitly. Better to keep Merlino on his toes. To keep him guessing. So he changed the subject. “Why don't we go and drink to the good resolution of our quandary today?”

Merlino's expression didn't ease. “You mean to say you want to go to a tavern?”

Arturo hadn't exactly meant that. He had been rather inclined to visit an osteria, a more reputable place. But Merlino's eyes seemed to shine at the prospect and Arturo wanted them to continue to do so. He wanted to go someplace Merlino truly desired to go.

The Taverna del Sole was a little of the Mercato Vecchio with its stalls full of fruit and vegetables. It lay in Via de Saponai right in front of the Saponai's workshops, which made the place smell pungent with the odour of the soaps used to work cloth. The Taverna itself offered no view of the shop floor, for it sprawled out at cellar level. It was dark. The only light came from wall sconces holding flambeaux, and the from the oven brightening the area around it. Merlino and Arturo took a seat by the wall and hailed the bar maid with raised hands. She served them two cups of wine, one sweet, the other not, and cuts of prosciutto and pork loin. They ate the food on brown bread, warm and covered in fresh butter.

“I suppose this is too simple fare for you,” Merlino said fingers covered in butter because apparently he couldn't eat like a proper adult. “Used as you are to delicacies.”

Arturo couldn't say that he wasn't, but he liked this, and he wouldn't stop partaking in this food just because it didn't fit Merlino's notions of what he should be used to. “I'll have you know that in my wilder days I frequented many a seedy tavern.”

“Really, did you?” Merlino cocked his head to the side. “And what did you do in those taverns?”

Found love, lost love, drank and revelled and lived to forget the day he would have to step into his duties. “It's not for you to know.” Arturo eased that with a smile.

“I see, you like being mysterious.”

“I do no such thing.” Arturo inflated his chest. “I'm not as vain a coxcomb as to try and impress you by way of aloofness.”

“So you are trying to impress me?” Merlino's eyes twinkled over the rim of his glass.

“I don't need to.” Arturo watched as Merlino blushed. Perhaps that hadn't come across quite as he'd intended. “You're my employee. I don't need to have that kind of impact on you.”

Merlino cleaned his mouth on a napkin. To do so he turned his face away. “No, of course not.”

Silence followed and it stretched for a while. As it deepened, Arturo watched the serving girls hurtle past bearing trays, saw the proprietress fill goblets right from the cask, and the dogsbody swipe the floor with a broom that only moved rushes about. At last, feeling his skin prickle at the silence, he asked the first question that came to mind. “Do you find your old village very different from Florence?”

“Are you joking?” Merlino's eyes went small at the corners, lines forming around them. “My native town can be crossed steeple to steeple in under seven minutes.”

Arturo made a noise. “I thought Montalcino fought for Siena at Montaperti and later still. It can't be that small and irrelevant a place if it got involved in that kind of warmongering.”

“You don't need a sizeable surface area or a large population to involve yourself in politics. People naturally do.” Merlino toyed with a bread crumb. It looked soft and golden. “What about you? You're not a Florentine either. How do you find your new town?”

“As a place to conquer.” But that wasn't entirely true either. That was what his father saw it as. Arturo had come to develop his own feelings about it. “Well, no.” He could have played a part, the one he was here to perform, but he didn't want to do that when it came to Merlino. “As a bustling place, full of challenges to one's acuity.” He tapped his head. “Full of hope.”

“I like that idea.” Merlino smiled, nodding to himself, chewing his lip. “See at first I was reluctant.”

Arturo wasn't sure of Merlino's meaning, or at least of the slant his words were meant to take. “In what way?”

“Coming here.” Merlino shook his head, his lips turned up. “I didn't want to. I didn't see what life could hold for me here that it didn't in Montalcino.”

“But now you do?”

“Now I do.” Merlino's lips kept a curl that Arturo couldn't interpret.

Arturo decided it was better not to investigate that statement. Instead, he paid for the food they'd consumed and led Merlino back to street level.

****

The night was dark with precious few stars blinking between the rim of palazzos that crowded the streets unravelling away from the Arno. If it weren't for the flambeaux bearers they wouldn't see the arch of the bridges, the walkways, or the lay out of the streets they were traversing. The light of the torches shone on the archways standing at the bases of noble houses, on the wooden shutters on more modest ones, on stall doors and statues, whose limbs seemed to move in the glow.

“Why won't you tell me where we're going?” Merlino said, looking left and right as if that could help him guess their destination. “Why all this mystery?”

“Why don't you just take a breath and enjoy the night, Merlino.” Arturo for one thought that it was a fine one. It wasn't cold yet, though it was humid because of the river, and with a cloak on, the temperature felt just perfect. “With autumn coming there won't be that many.”

“I still want to know where we're bound.”

“By and by, Merlino, by and by.”

The Palazzo Pazzi rose in Via del Proconsolo, occupying number ten, which stood at the corner with Borgo Albizzi. It was built of brick up to a height of two stories and had clean masonry towers above, mullioned windows breaking up the facade. Armed guards stood before the entrance, their cloaks billowing in the breeze, their halberds glinting.

Upon sight of the group, one of the watchmen challenged them. “Who goes there and for what purpose do you visit?”

“Your masters invited us to dinner,” Arturo said, pushing past his torch-bearers. “My name's Arturo Draghi and you'll find I'm expected.”

The guards cluttered their halberds together and then stood aside.

“Very showy,” Merlino commented under his breath.

The dining room was large and oblong. Though the fire wasn't lit, a chimney piece stood on one side; at its feet bear and wolf hides served as rugs. On the mantelpiece stood golden cups and cornucopias. On top of them, on the cladding, the Pazzi coat of arms stretched upwards and downwards, two sharp-toothed fish facing away from each other.

Upon seeing the new arrivals, Andrea, the host, moved away from the bunch of guests he'd been entertaining and crossed over to them. “Arturo Draghi,” he said, “it's been awhile.”

“Since my father entertained you two winters ago.” Arturo remembered the occasion well. Their lunches had lasted well into the afternoons and their dinners well into the night. They'd gone hunting and hawking and spent the days in an array of activities meant to interest their guest. “He still talks about it all the time.”

“Prato is a fond memory both for me and my wife as well,” Pazzi said. “But come and let me seize the opportunity to give as much back as I was once offered.”

At the table, numerous people sat. Even without knowing them Arturo recognised Cosimo de Medici, his brother, and wife. There were too many likenesses in town, portraits in public edifices, statues in open piazzas, for him to mistake them for any other. The woman by the side of Lorenzo had to be his wife. The other occupants of the table were unknown to Arturo.

Pazzi's wife, Caterina, leaned in close to Arturo and said, “You'll recognise Bardi.”

“I do.” Arturo nodded. Being a banker by trade, Bardi was one of the few Arturo knew, by sight if not to talk to. “Who are the others?”

“You'll have your friend at your right.” Caterina inclined her head at Merlino. “Next to him will sit Ginevra.” She pointed to a young woman with dark curls and equally dark freckles scattered across her face. “She's Messere della Robbia's illegitimate daughter. He wants her treated as a princess and since he's as rich as Croesus, so she is.”

Arturo nodded. These things worked exactly like that. Some noblemen may prefer a title or legitimacy when it came to dealings with their fellows or in matters of matrimony. But far and wide people respected money and influence more than they did deeds and coronets. The della Robbias had empires at their feet.

“And that is Ranulfo de Ranulfi,” Caterina said, “his family goes back to the Crusades.” She smiled as though she could picture those battles of long ago. “And his friend, the condottiero, Leone de Cavalcanti.”

As she went on, Arturo lost the thread of Caterina's ramblings, but at least now he knew enough about the guests to ensure he'd make no faux pas. He wasn't sure he could say the same of Merlino. Throughout dinner he made himself open to all manner of chatter, irrespective of sex, rank or marital status of his interlocutor. He made fast friends with Ginevra, who laughed at everything he said behind the shield of her hand, and he engaged knight and condottiero in such talk they started to regale their audience with tales of their exploits. Leone in particular seemed to have Merlino's attention. Once he revealed he'd campaigned from the Armagnac to the lands of the Holy Roman empire, Merlino hung from his every word.

“Were they very hard campaigns?” Merlino asked, putting down his knife, to which pieces of meat still clung, to lean in. “I supposed they must have been.”

“I'll say this.” Leone drained his cup. “Pope Eugene is a hard task master.”

The Medicis shifted uncomfortably in their seats but Merlino didn't pick up on that. He said, “Was he?”

“Oh, yes.” Leone moved forward in his chair too. “Eugene supported beautiful Florence--” He put his cup up. “He had us fight against Milan.” A murmur rose amid the diners at the mention of their enemy. “And long and hard we fought, pushed on by papal harangues.”

“That must be something worth hearing,” Merlino said, cocking his head as if that would allow him to listen more carefully.

“Indeed.” Leone broke some bread but didn't eat it. “And that isn't all. When Rome revolted against him he had to escape disguised in the robes of a Benedictine.”

“Really?” Merlino's eyes danced with interest. “That sounds like something worth witnessing.”

“Well, His Holiness went through a rough patch,” Leone said, to the discomfiture of the Medicis. “He was even pelted with vegetables, rotten I hear, but in the end we got the City back for him.”

“The power of the papacy cannot be doubted,” Medici said, boasting, since his bank, like Arturo's, lent to the Holy See. “It's been put back in place.”

Merlino had little ear for politics. He wasn't interested. He addressed Leone instead. “But tell me more about all the battles.”

“Why, Merlino,” Arturo said, prickled by Merlino's attitude over this. “I didn't make you out as one to be lured in by such bloodthirsty tales.”

“Why, I am not.” Merlino blushed. “I do not condone the shedding of blood.”

“It is, with all due respect--” Arturo knew how not to make enemies in so far as he could. “The man's profession.”

“I--” Merlino spluttered and his smile dwindled to nothing.

Ginevra, Arturo’s neighbour at the table, placed her hand on his knee. Nobody could see the gesture but Arturo could definitely feel it. To cover his startlement at her boldness, Arturo took a sip of his wine.

“Rest easy, sir,” Ginevra said, squeezing his knee. “He's not enamoured with the man any more than you are. It's the glitter of action he's enticed by.”

“I'm not worried about Merlino.” Arturo speared his meat with a long fork and bathed it in the honeyed sauce. “I simply think banking is much more adventurous and exciting than waving a sword about can be.”

“I'm sure many people in this room would agree.” Ginevra caught them all in her gaze. “That's why you have enemies.”

Arturo turned to her. “I have no enemies. Only rivals.”

Ginevra lowered her voice. “Beware, Messere, rivalries in Florence are never simple and take more courage than a pitched battle.”

“I wouldn't be afraid of the latter.” Arturo believed being at war didn't take require great courage. Instead, facing your demons and taking their challenges head on was true bravery. But he strongly hoped he would have shown no signs of cowardice had he ever been anything other than a banker, if his lot had been the battlefield. Still, banking fulfilled him. “I won't quail at the former.”

“You're brave, Messere,” Ginevra said, dropping her hand. “But foolhardy too. “

“How?”

“Beware,” Ginevra said, looking around her. “Just beware.”

Over the course of the dinner Arturo talked banking with Bardi and his hosts while Merlino seemed to be making fast friends with both the condottiero and Ginevra. Ginevra laughed at his words, her laughter melodic, while Leone chuckled a little more subtly, stroking his beard all the while.

The night wore on, became darker, the guests tipsier. They mingled and they danced to the tune of rebecs. They discussed affairs of city administration and taxes. All the bankers were keen on this subject; all those who were not eschewed it in favour of canvassing music and art.

When the Cathedral bells chimed one, the guests began to disperse, and Arturo and Merlino wound their way together towards Palazzo Draghi.

*****

The kestrel had a red breast, grey plumes, and sharp beady eyes from which dark streaks departed. Its claws were rounded at the tip and sank deep into the leather sleeve Arturo wore over his arm. As Arturo held it up, the bird fluttered its quills, grew big, and gazed at Arturo with keen eyes. “You're hungry, aren't you?” Arturo said, holding a piece of dried meat from his fingers. “Here, here's your reward.”

Just as the kestrel plucked it, Merlino came riding into the clearing. He was galloping fast, raising dust, but his seat was appalling. He bent his back, his legs were too far forward, and he was pushing hard into the stirrups. He was a disaster but he didn't seem to know that, for he happily waved his hat about, calling out to Arturo.

How he got to him without breaking his neck was a mystery Arturo had rather not probe. But get there he did. After he'd stumbled out of the saddle, lost his cap, and retrieved it, Merlino brushed the dirt of the road off, him, winced, coughed, then said, “I have wonderful news.” A wide grin accompanied those words. “Great news indeed.”

Arturo swung the lure, heaved his arm up, and let the bird fly off it. “What sort?”

“I closed a deal all on my own.” Merlino kept on smiling. “Ginevra's father has agreed to banking with us.”

“I thought he favoured the Medicis?” Last Arturo heard was that he in fact was ready to put a considerable sum in his hands. “I thought it was a done deal.”

“No more.” Merlino let out a big breath. “I talked to Ginevra.”

Arturo snatched his gaze off Merlino and followed the flight of the kestrel instead. It planed over the clearing and moved over the line of trees. Though he could not see it from where he was, Arturo knew fields of barley extended past the copse. All the way to Florence they rolled, interspersed here and there by beaten tracks and rows of gnarled trees. “Ginevra, you're on such good terms with her.”

“I've seen her once or twice socially,” Merlino said, blushing a little while squinting against the sunlight. “She's very open and friendly.”

“I bet she is.” Ginevra had talked to Merlino all evening at the Medici dinner. Small wonder she found him interesting, nice, alluring. But that didn't mean she was friendly. Arturo was sure there was way more than that afoot, the more so since Ginevra had clearly persuaded her father to this volte-face. “I'm sure she likes you too.”

“She made no mystery of it.” Merlino said that as if he hadn't just won himself the hand of a virtual heiress. “But I don't think she's the one who did it. I think my powers of persuasion were strong enough to convince old della Robbia himself.”

While Arturo valued Merlino's contributions, he didn't think he was that persuasive when it came to crunching pure numbers. His allure was quite different. It was in his easy manner and ready smiles, in the companionship he offered, in his guilelessness, strange as it was for a banker. He didn't think that was what had worked his magic on della Robbia. On his daughter, however, it might have.

“Well, that's good.” Arturo spied the kestrel up in the sky. It was vaulting backwards, its outstretched wings borne up by air. Knowing it was gliding downwards, Arturo held out his arm and waited for its landing. “That's a good asset.”

“You don't sound overly enthusiastic,” Merlino said, his facial muscles slackening to the point he lost his smile. “I thought you'd be proud.”

Arturo couldn't bear to tell Merlino he wasn't. He lacked in enthusiasm, true. But it certainly wasn't because of what Merlino had told him. Money for money's sake didn't interest him. And while this new agreement made his the second bank in Florence, he didn't want to owe his success to the loss of Merlino. And he most certainly would lose him if he married. “You didn't do badly,” Arturo therefore said. “Just see to it you don't stray.”

“Why would I?” Merlino notched an eyebrow. “I'm content.”

“Are you?” Arturo tilted his head.

“Infinitely.”

The kestrel's wings beat close and Arturo was just in time to receive it on his arm. Wings flapping, a dead mouse held in its beak, the bird landed. “You were saying?”

Though there was no fear on his face, not any measure of the real sentiment, Merlino stepped back. “Well, if you tell your beastly bird to drop its poor prey, I'll give you a ride back to Florence.”

Outside the clearing Arturo had a retinue waiting for him. He couldn't tell whether Merlino knew about them or not. Arturo could choose to inform him or he could take the offer. His men would return on their own once they failed to see him. It would be a nuisance for them but right now Arturo wanted to take the offer. “Given your appalling riding abilities I should probably say no, but I'll take you up on it.”

“I ride well!” Merlino said, sticking his chest out. When Arturo snorted in his face, he rolled his eyes. “Enough.”

“Shoddily enough, agreed.” Arturo smiled. “Now shall we?”

Merlino mounted. “Not if you insist on having that thing perching on your wrist.”

“My poor kestrel.” Arturo stroked its plumage and the bird leant into the touch. “Merlino doesn't love your majestic beauty as I do.”

“Pfft.” Merlino held the bridles closer to his body to stop the horse from stepping away. “Seriously, it'll spook Serafina.”

Arturo raised his eyebrow.

“My horse.”

“I'll have to let you fly after us,” he murmured to the bird. Arturo raised his arm so the kestrel could fly and with a few caws, it took off. Having mounted behind Merlino, Arturo adjusted his seat in the saddle and fiddled with his arms.

“You should wrap them around me,” Merlino said, amusement in his voice. “So you don't fall off.”

“I'll have you know--” Arturo grounded himself before sliding forwards and circling his arms around Merlino. “--that though I may be no condottiero, I always had the finest thoroughbreds.”

“I'm sure your father never refused you anything.” With his knees, Merlino spurred the horse on. “That wasn't the object of contention.”

Merlino was warm, his body firm, and Arturo lost track of the conversation in his appreciation of it, of the feelings it engendered in him. He had seldom thought an embrace – for the lack of a better definition – could be so moving. But this one was. It made his breath stick in his throat and his heart race more than the horse they were on. Even so he couldn't grow so absent-minded, so mired in his musings, that he forgot to answer. So he said, “What was then?”

“Never mind,” Merlino said, giving his horse leave to go at a gallop. “You'll see when you're ready to see.”

Arturo wanted to be ready.

***** 

A procession was snaking down the street. The standard bearers came first, their flags fluttering in the breeze, their vibrant colours catching the sunlight. The city's notables followed, with sashes strung across their chests, their hues flamboyant. The drummers flanked the group beating their sticks on the taut skins, the sound rhythmic, martial.

Arturo stepped off the balcony and walked back into his study. Though it was day, it was dark and candles burned in their holders. Their flames danced upwards, guttering with the breeze that swept in from behind the curtains.

Without having knocked, Merlino walked in with a tray of food. There was cured ham on it, bread, some kind of dome pasty that still steamed, and a cup. “Here's your lunch.”

“You're my apprentice, Merlino,” Arturo said, his stomach grumbling at the sight of the food. “You're not supposed to bring up my meal.”

“I saw your maid handling it--” Merlino smiled at the recollection. “And I thought to myself I'd do you this service.”

Arturo's insides warmed; a flutter took them, consequently he had to brace himself to act normally. He had to steady his hands with an effort of will and make sure he could take the tray from Merlino without spilling anything. “You don't have to.”

Merlino shrugged. “I like to.”

Having started to bite on the bread, Arturo coughed. He locked gazes with Merlino and Merlino smiled at him, stealing a piece of ham from the board. “How--” Arturo tried to fish for something to say but his thoughts were rather clouded. Clouded by Merlino's presence, the way he'd eased into his chair with no by your leave, with an attitude borne of confidence, intimacy. “How's the counting house doing?”

“Fine,” Merlino said, taking some of the wine from Arturo's cup. “I went over the books myself. It's doing great.”

“Well if you're doing the books.” The corners of Arturo's lips pushed outwards. “Then we're safe.”

“I'm magic with numbers.” Merlino wriggled his fingers. “You can trust me on that.”

Arturo drank from the cup they were now sharing between them. He made a choice to touch his lips to the same spot Merlino's had lingered on. Though Merlino could not know of the reason why he was doing that, Arturo reddened. Or at least so he thought because his neck burned. “I suppose Gaius wanted to test you.”

Leaning forward, elbows on the table, Merlino said, “You don't trust me, do you?”

“What?” Arturo had broken the pasty in two and it released a puffy cloud of vapour. “Why would you believe that?”

“Because of what you just asked.” Merlino arched an eyebrow. “If you were confident in my abilities you wouldn't doubt Gaius' trust in me.”

Arturo trusted Gaius fully. “That's not true.”

“You still assume he's testing me,” Merlino said. “While he's not.”

“Then what is he doing?” It stood to reason, Arturo reckoned, to think that he was. Any other interpretation sounded farfetched.

“Gaius is old.” Merlino's forehead stayed lined because of the way is eyebrow had gone up. “He needs help. That's what I'm doing. Helping him.”

“Of course.” Arturo had noticed how tired Gaius looked, how worn out by years of service at the bank. “Only you're much younger and I supposed he was still schooling you.”

“You must believe in me.” Merlino's manner grew serious, more impassioned than the light conversation they'd been having warranted. “You must.”

“I do.” 

Merlino's appearances were deceptive. He did look like a lackadaisical youth, but he was shrewd too. He'd saved them from a bad deal and found them a good one. Arturo must remember that. Not that he must praise Merlino to the high heavens or god knows how he would run away with it. He'd become quite uncontrollable with his ebullient charm and sweet personality. And then where would they end up? With Merlino the master, and Arturo the devotee. They couldn't have that. “That doesn't mean you shouldn't respect Gaius.”

“But I do that with all my heart.” Merlino's face fell. “I just want you to have confidence in me the way Gaius does. It would. . .” His eyes fell to the desk and he inhaled hard. As a consequence, his chest filled and his shoulders moved back. “It would make me happy to know that you did as well.”

“I'm not at all dissatisfied with you, Merlino,” Arturo said, aware that he was dissembling. In such a short span of time Arturo had already come to value Merlino, treasuring him beyond anyone of his acquaintance. It was absurd but so it was. It just wasn't wise to tell this to Merlino. Arturo didn't think Merlino would use the news to his advantage – he was too gentle a soul for that – but if he did, Arturo would be at a loss for how to act. And he couldn't allow that. “I think I even, god forbid, praised you.”

“But you won't listen to me when I urge caution.” Merlino's look was pointed. “We're doing so well, indeed, better than we expected with a new branch, but you're making enemies.”

Arturo put down his food. “Ginevra's words, I trust.”

“Yes, this comes from her.” Merlino's brow knitted in confusion and his head tilted to the side. “I fail to see how this discredits her.”

Arturo gesticulated broadly. “Because, well, because she's sweet on you.”

Merlino laughed and shook his head. “She has no such intention, rest assured.”

Not wishing to dwell longer on the subject, Arturo said, “If I promise to watch out, will you be satisfied?”

“A lot more than I am at present.” Merlino picked up a letter opener from Arturo's desk, and tried its blade on the point of his finger. Luckily, it was dull. “There are other things I look forward to but that was one of the most important.”

With an opening such as that, Arturo couldn't refrain from asking. “What are those things?”

“That is not a conversation you can have right after a meal.” Merlino stood. “Let's go watch the parade.”

Men in garish costume were still filing under Arturo's window. Some held maypoles with garlands around their tops and objects on a string hanging from them; some carried pennants that fluttered as they marched. Little barefoot girls ran ahead of the procession, flower crowns in their hair. Arturo spotted daisies, forget me nots and other deciduous growths.

“Now we don't have processions as big as this one in Montalcino,” Merlino said, leaning over the balcony's stone baluster. “You're quite privileged to be able to witness it from your own home.”

Arturo knew how lucky he was.

***** 

The Medici had thrown open their house. The doors to the palazzo were flung wide, and people filled the solemn marble staircase, the receiving rooms, the loggias. They wore masks over their gowns and doublets so their faces were those of satyrs and nymphs, summers and winters, moons and stars. The heavy brocade of the ladies' garments trailed along treads as they moved. The orchestra played from a balcony that jutted out under the frescoed roof.

“I have never seen so much magnificence,” Merlino said, looking around from left to right. He was wearing a fey mask and he'd painted his skin green. He was, or so he'd maintained, a spirit of the woods tonight. “This surpasses your home, Arturo.”

Arturo had to admit it was true. “I will get to these heights.” His sense of competitiveness was rising to the fore. “One day.”

“Lucky de Medici doesn't have daughters.” Merlino kept on admiring the surroundings. “Or your Father would have you marry one of them.”

Arturo was about to ask why Merlino thought it was lucky, when a woman dressed as the sun came over to them. Upon their failing to recognise her, she removed her mask. It was Ginevra. Her face was made up with a dust the colour of gold and little rays drawn in pencil departed from her eyes. Her gown was spun of yellow damask with filigree threads running all over it. “Arturo, Merlino, what are you both doing here?”

“We were invited.” Arturo pondered not coming but decided that would be a sign of weakness. “We wouldn't have forced our presence on our hosts.”

“I'm sure,” Ginevra said, “but still, is it advisable for you to be here?”

“Have you any reason to think it would be the contrary?” Arturo privately held that brushing shoulders with his rivals could have no adverse consequences. They would see he was not afraid and ready to mingle on equal footing. Whatever threat they posed, showing strength was better than making much of one's own weaknesses. “I’ve weighed this already.”

“To be honest, Messere.” Ginevra toyed with the crucifix adorning her breast. “I think you should know--”

“Ah my daughter,” Tommaso della Robbia said. “Come, come, I must introduce you to my old friends.”

Not allowing her father to pull her away, Ginevra rooted herself to the spot. “Promise, you'll heed my words, Arturo Draghi.”

‘Rivalries in Florence are never simple,’ she had declared at Pazzi’s dinner. He nodded solemnly to her as her father led her away.

***** 

To the sound of lutes and cymbals they danced. They stepped down in couples and files, mixed together, touching hands, knees bending. When Arturo came face to face with Merlino, he smiled, and Merlino grinned. Arturo had to move on, but he hinted at a bow and Merlino did the same. When they crossed paths again, they dipped their heads, hands behind their backs. Whenever they caught each other's glances they grinned, or hid smiles that would, however, tug at their mouths.

A speech preceded the banquet and flourished for long minutes. Medici spoke about Florence, the role of banking in the city, how it knit social groups. He dwelt on the importance of family ties and how alliances between clans were nothing more than a larger than life version of familial groups. Arturo wasn't sure if this was aimed at him and whether it was an olive branch, an attempt to form a pact of sorts between their families. It could also be a threat, a stand the Medicis would make against anyone coming at them.

Pork followed thick soup. Pigeons weighed down platters garnished with nuts, flowers, and softly boiled vegetables. Meat cutlets stuffed pies that released clouds of white puffy smoke when broken. The tarts were sweet and covered in marmalade made golden by the syrup used in them.

Arturo was eating sparingly. His own lunches were quite rich and he didn't want to act as though he cared for such lavishness. Besides Merlino had pointed out that Arturo had put on weight and he wanted to prove that Merlino had not only dreamt that but that Arturo himself never indulged at all. He'd sought his eyes to make a point, when one of the servants topped up his glass with new wine.

As he picked the goblet up, Ginevra leant close to Merlino, frowning. Arturo had time to wonder what Ginevra could be saying and how Merlino could be blind to her advances, when Merlino's expression changed to one of utter horror. A little part of Arturo, the base one, felt some satisfaction at the idea she had elicited such a reaction. But then he was too busy trying to understand why Merlino should be so alarmed. By then Merlino had vaulted over the table, crossed the hall, and dashed to Arturo's end of the banquet table. “Don't drink!” he cried.

“Whatever are you on about?” Arturo failed to grasp the non sequitur.

“You mustn't drink that!” Merlino's gaze was unwavering, his jaw locked in place. “It's poisoned.”

Arturo was as prudent as the next man, but this seemed highly far-fetched. “It can't be. I've been drinking from this same glass all evening.”

“Think about it,” Merlino said. “They just poured you some more.”

“That's true.” But it was still nonsense. “The wine must have come from the same source.”

Arturo lifted the cup to his lips. “Has Ginevra put you up to this?”

Merlino snatched the glass from his fingers. “It was tampered with, and I’ll prove it.” He drank a mouthful. Then stared at Arturo with an eyebrow arched.

Before Arturo could come up with a sufficient rejoinder, Merlino had blanched, his lips paled to a mauve tone, and he wrapped his hand around his throat, tongue poking out from between his lips.

“He's choking!” Upending jugs and cups, Arturo jumped over the table and went to Merlino. He was just in time to wrap his arms around him, and cushion his fall. “Get a physician, immediately.”

“N-now you b-believe me?” Merlino's words were broken, spoken between a gulped in breath and the next. “N-now you know.”

“You idiot,” Arturo said, cradling Merlino close. “You didn't need to do that to prove you were right.”

“You wouldn't have b-believed m-me otherwise.” Merlino said, his eyelashes fluttering, his cough getting thinner, as he went laxer and laxer.

“Merlino!” Arturo shouted, then when Merlino failed to respond, he pulled him to him and kissed his brow. “Merlino.”

*****

The four poster had two mattresses and two stacks of pillows. The bed hangings were of floral brocade traced in tones of green and pale yellow. The linens were fresh, crisp, and smelled of camphor. The pillowcase had embroidery running around its rim. The only feature out of place was the sweat staining it.

It came from Merlino, who was lying panting on his bed, face beaded with sweat, made translucent from it. From time to time he called out to Arturo, moaned, bid him not take the poison. When he settled, his breathing grew heavier, more laboured, rattled his chest.

That was what scared Arturo the most, for during those lapses Merlino looked very much like he was dead. His chest stopped rising and but for the light ghostings of air that issued from his mouth one would have been justified in thinking he had indeed left the land of the living. When that happened, Arturo stopped his pacing, and took Merlino's hand, searching for his pulse, leaning close so he could feel the trickling of his breath on his ear.

When Gaius entered, Arturo shouted, “Have you found an apothecary with a good antidote?”

Gaius looked much older than he had but a few hours ago, wisps of his hair, usually coming down to his shoulder in a tidy coif, flew about his head. His jowls appeared sunken and his eyes had more lines under them than was their wont. “I've searched the whole of Florence and I haven't found one with an antidote for hemlock.”

“We must send abroad then.” Arturo had men at his disposal. At his orders they would start for the four points of the compass and seek the medicament that would put Merlino to rights. “Right this moment.”

“I've already given such orders,” Gaius said, ducking his head. “Merlino's my nephew, sir.”

“Of course.” Arturo could be such an idiot sometimes. “Have you instructed them well?”

“Very well.” Gaius nodded his head. “I told them to be ready to grease palms.”

“You did well, Gaius.” Arturo sat by Merlino's bed and so did Gaius. “I won't spare any effort on Merlino's behalf, rest assured.”

“I never doubted it, young man,” Gaius said. “I never doubted it.”

With the search for a cure being out of their hands, Gaius and Arturo had nought to do but sit and wait. They listened to the crackle of the fire in the fireplace, to the hiss of the wind against the panes and to the stray noises that seeped in from the street. As time passed, Merlino's breath thinned and thinned and he went grey till Arturo was afraid to look at him and find him gone.

By and by Gaius fell asleep and his snoring became rhythmical.

Alone with his thoughts, Arturo paced to and fro, stopped his pacing, then rested his head against the wall. Candles guttered, the street fell silent, and no noise permeated the room but those coming from Gaius’ and Merlino's faint rattles.

Dawn came brisk and pale. The street became alive with noise. Shutters opened, ware sellers cried out, women cleaned their doorsteps with resounding swipes of their brushes, urchins ran about, their soles clopping. As colour seeped into the room, the bed hangings went from grey to green, the walls from charcoal to grey and the tapestries from black to light blue.

Just as sunlight touched Merlino's face the door flew open and a bravo entered. His hat had a plume, his clothes were gaudy under his breastplate, and his sword was heavy duty, a one and half hand blade of German make. His mantle billowing behind him, the bravo walked forwards and said, “I rode hard all night. I tried market towns and small villages, woke up physickers and potion makers--”

“But you didn't find an antidote,” Arturo said, looking at Merlino prone in the bed. With each breath, the life was ebbing out of him. “That's what you wanted to say.”

“Nay, Messere,” the bravo said. “Listen yet. Dissatisfied with my findings, I mounted again. I spurred my horse till the poor beast had worked a lather.”

Arturo couldn't see where this was going, but hoped that the bravo would get to the point quickly. Hope was starting to fill his chest, but he knew how flimsy it was, how subject to upsets. Darkness ate at it already. “I don't care about your horse, man! I intend to know whether you fulfilled the mission I gave you.”

“I came upon Certaldo, Messere. It lies six leagues north of our fair city.”

Arturo knew that. That wasn't the information he wanted at all. “Hurry, man, hurry.”

“In Certaldo I knocked on all doors,” the bravo said, shifting his weight and moving his hand to his sword. “But all physicians I saw maintained they didn't have the remedy I sought. God knows I tried even barbers.”

Arturo was ready for anything. A barber wasn't his first choice, but many a one had saved a man in dire straits and for whom regular medicine could do nothing. “Did they have an antidote?”

“I'm afraid not, Messere.” The bravo shook his head. “But then a little girl tugged me by the cloak and when I looked down she pointed. I had to bribe her with bread and half a florin, but then she directed me to a hut.”

“A hut?” What that had to do with anything, Arturo failed to fathom.

“In the hut lives a witch, Messere,” the bravo said. “She was young but ragged and missing a tooth here.” He pointed at the corresponding tooth. “But she had plenty of herbs hanging from the rafters, and many a powder in her bottles. And in her cauldron potions were brewing.”

Arturo relinquished all hope. What good could all those things do when in the hands of some lunatic woman?

The bravo went on. “I told her that I needed an antidote for hemlock. The woman hemmed and hawed, but when she saw my gold, she gave me this.” He fished a small stoppered bottle out of his pocket. “It's to be mixed with water.”

As the bravo finished his tale, Gaius woke. “What, what?”

“This man,” Arturo said, stalking over and snatching the bottle from him, “has found the antidote. He says it's to be diluted in water.”

“Of course, of course.” Gaius made for the bottle. He took it from Arturo and poured the contents in a glass. He added water to it. “Most preparations need to be laced with other ingredients.”

“Is it ready?” Arturo said as Gaius mixed the antidote with a spoon.

Gaius held the glass to the light. “I think it is, my boy. I think it is.”

Gaius approached the bed, leant over Merlino, and helped him sit up. With infinite care he helped him drink. At first Merlino spilled the potion, but as Gaius massaged his throat, he swallowed more and more of the treatment.

At first nothing happened. Merlino looked as he'd looked all night. So they dismissed the bravo and sent him in search of new potions. He would go as far as Siena and Mantova to look for them. But as the minutes passed, Merlino regained some colour and his breathing evened. Before midday he fell into a sleep completely different from the torpor he'd lain in before.

In the early afternoon Merlino woke.

Arturo's relief knew no bounds.

**** 

Arturo entered the room. He'd expected to find Merlino asleep. After the day he'd had yesterday, with coughing and sweating fits, and barely there consciousness, he'd braced for nothing else. But today Merlino sat up in bed with a tray on his knees. Colour spread across the bridge of his nose and up his neck. He looked rosy, healthy, a little flushed still perhaps, but all the more lovely for it.

With the knowledge that Merlino would survive, Arturo's heart broke along clean lines, right in two. Now, however, with the thought he had to face Merlino, he floundered. He'd believed he'd have more time to make sense of the storm of feelings inside him, that he'd come to understand how indignation and rage could war with tenderness inside him. But he supposed he was duty bound to speak to him.

With a deep breath, he closed the door behind him and stalked into the room with a sure stride. “You're an idiot.”

Merlino's face fell. “You're angry.”

“You're asking if I'm angry?” Arturo's shoulders went up. “You're asking me if I'm angry you drank poison like an idiot!”

“You weren't going to stop.” Merlino said this as if it made perfect sense.

“And so you decided to make a cautionary tale of yourself.” Arturo was still trying to fathom the reasoning beyond that.

“I meant to only drink a sip,” Merlino says, worrying the hem of his blanket. “I didn't dream the poison would be so potent as to strike me down quite so quickly.”

Arturo touched his palm to his forehead and shook his head. “Your idea was utterly hare-brained.”

“I know it now.” Merlino twisted his fingers together. “But given the choice I'd do it again.”

Arturo started. “What!” Merlino must have a mental illness of some sort. “Have you learnt nothing from all of this?”

So his shoulders made a broad arc against the headboard, Merlino sat up straighter. “Look, I'd prefer not to be poisoned ever again.” His mouth drooped in a grimace and he massaged his stomach in circular motions. He looked up though and determination sparked from him. “But I would do it again in a heartbeat if it would spare you pain.”

“Why?” Arturo's heart has surely missed a bit. “I'm only your employer.”

“Because I thought we were friends too.” Merlino reddened to the roots of his hair. “Because I feel for you.”

Arturo sank down on Merlino's bed, at the rim of it, his head down. “It's the fatigue that makes you speak so.”

“No.” Merlino leant forwards and took Arturo's hand. “No I'm of sound mind.” He scoffed at himself. “Even before I took the poison, I felt for you.”

“You did?” Arturo cocked his head to the side so he could see Merlino. “You truly and honestly did?”

“Yes.” Merlino scooted down, searched Arturo's face, then took it in his hands. “I honestly did.”

Arturo swallowed. “Then I--”

“Don't say anything.” Merlino kissed him softly on the lips, a fleeting yielding pressure that was soon gone. “Just let it happen.”

“You're not well.” Arturo said though he wanted his lips cushioned by Merlino's just as they'd been before. There was something about Merlino's kiss, the sweetness of it, that made it precious to Arturo, that unravelled his insides at the seams. “You shouldn't.”

Once more Merlino kissed him, lingering on the touch, dwelling on it with lips and tongue. Unable to do anything else, Arturo basked in it, in the warmth and familiarity that were working their way through him, swarming him from the outside in. But he had to come to his senses. Such a short time ago Merlino had been ill, his body consumed by the poison. Arturo couldn't in all conscience let him strain himself so. However much he loved all this, he had to put a stop to it. “Merlino, no.”

“What?” Pulling back, Merlino looked down. “If you don't want--”

“It's not a matter of not desiring.” Arturo wanted Merlino to be clear of this. “But I couldn't forgive myself if something happened to you.”

Merlino grimaced. “Worse than this you mean?”

“You never know, you are not well yet.” Arturo didn't want to be the one to defy fate. “There's time for this, for us.”

“I'll take your word for it,” Merlino said. “Over wanting it.”

This time it was Arturo who took Merlino's lips between his own. “I do. Just give yourself time.”

“I will.” Merlino yawned. “I suppose you weren't too wrong.”

“No, I wasn't.” He squeezed Merlino's hand and placed it on top of the sheet. “Now sleep.”

*****

The shadows expanded to envelop the chair first and the carpet second. The candle's flame grew smaller and smaller, the wick shorter, the mounds of beeswax at the base of the taper became taller and taller, till its crests reached half the candle's length. His dog stretched with a yip, scratched himself, and gave a bark.

Arturo pushed off the bed, and petted Blanchefleur's head. “You want out, don't you?”

He opened the door, surprised to see Merlino standing there with a candlestick in his hand, the light it emanated brightening only one side of his face and not the other. Blanchefleur nudged between them and exited the room. As a result of Blanchefleur's bid for freedom, Merlino alone was left there. 

“I'm fine now,” he said, his words decisive, delarative. To prove it, Merlino hefted both his shoulders, but the flame of the candle got itself extinguished in the process. “I cannot wait any longer.”

“It's been two weeks,” Arturo said, “you needn't wait.”

He pulled Merlino inside, poured him some wine from the bottle still on the table from the night repast and watched him drink. When his lips got smeared red, Arturo kissed Merlino, and together they shared the taste of the wine, their tongues sticky with the residue of it. Tangled together, they almost got breathless.

Wrapping his arms around his shoulders, Merlino held him close. His fingers curled around his nape, touching the hair there, toying with it. Something inside Arturo melted at the gesture, the intimacy of it, the gentleness of it. Merlino's other hand slid around his robe.

On the cusp of a monumental decision, the two of them stared at each other. Arturo couldn't speak, couldn't say anything to influence the outcome, but he looked his fill, basked in Merlino, the glint in his eyes, the half-smile that teased at his lips, the smell of him, earthy and musky. Arturo was so lost in the looking it was Merlino who had to shake him out of it.

Going weak at the knees, starved for breath in the lungs, Arturo let himself be kissed, let Merlino take control, while he enjoyed every touch and sound that came from him.

The more they kissed, the more a storm raged inside him. At first he reined it in. He didn't let his hands go wide on the map of Merlino's body, he didn't let his mouth score it, and he gave back with measure. But then he let go and his hands roved Merlino like a wanderer roved paths and his mouth latched onto Merlino's with renewed confidence, licking and biting, nursing tender kisses and starting wilder ones.

Tilting Merlino's head, he directed their next exchange, and Merlino clutched back at him, trying to get his robe off him, trailing skin with his palms, chasing it with his own body, his breath getting heavier as the heat between them rose.

There was no holding back, no stemming the tide then. They wrestled and stumbled across the room, walking each other backwards in turn, pressed together at the mouth, aiming for the bed, for its softness.

The bed yielded, welcomed them. The mattress dipped where Merlino lay on it; it went concave in the spaces Arturo hit it with his knees. It offered comfort, shelter. Holding Merlino down by the collar of his tunic, he slotted a thigh between his. He kneaded him with his knee, and cupped him with his palm. Merlino moaned.

“Arturo,” Merlino said. “You can't deal with a man so and not follow upon your promise.”

“I want to.” It was easy saying it, admitting it. “More then I should perhaps.”

Merlino knitted his brow, but Arturo didn't want to answer that. He didn't wish to talk himself back from this. So he kissed Merlino some more, in long, lingering, dirty swipes. Merlino returned Arturo's forays, rolled his hips as he did. When their laps touched, their cocks grazed, and they groaned and panted, grinding their hips together in a swing like motion.

At the sensation, Arturo's heart stuttered and Merlino's eyelids came down to half-mast. Arturo touched his lips to his forehead then, to his throat. He mouthed at the angle his jaw, at the confluence of bone, and slipped his hands under Merlino's tunic, where his belly was warm and covered with the lightest sheen of sweat.

He loosened his hose next, pulling it lower and lower as he worked at the fabric blindly. Merlino sighed and pushed his hips upwards. Arturo turned his head and licked the vein that meandered up Merlino's cock. He nibbled the crown, then sucked. The small sounds Merlino made were low- pitched and lodged deep in his throat. But they were eager, they were the noises a man made when he was coming undone. So Arturo tasted his skin with the flat of his tongue, tasted the salt of it with his lips, smearing spit around the tip of Merlino's cock.

The more Merlino moaned, the more Arturo worked him. His hips jerked upwards in little movements that had something of the spasm about them. Arturo rubbed him against his palm, against his face, took him in his mouth. When he slipped out it, Arturo took him in hand again. Merlino breathed hard, fast, like a horse that had raced seven leagues. Before touching his wet cock again, Arturo kissed Merlino, touching his teeth to his upper lip, slipping his tongue in his mouth. Only when Merlino stopped kissing back and thrust up instead, did Arturo let go of the kiss.

Pulling on Merlino, he placed him in his mouth, only the very tip. Cradling him on his tongue, he jacked him with a few strokes of his hand aimed at encircling the base. With a spurt and a few invocations to God, Merlino came.

Tasting him for a second only, Arturo let go. Then he turned Merlino round, pulled down his hose, and bared his arse. He kissed it, nibbled at it, parted him and tongued him inside. Though spent, his body heavy, Merlino thrashed. Arturo worked himself to a froth as well. He suckled and laved, dipped in and out, till he was so hard with his own imaginings he couldn't continue delaying.

He drizzled oils onto Merlino's skin, worked him loose with his fingers, with his own spit, with his mouth. When Merlino was ready, Arturo mounted him. With his first thrust, he didn't enter him. He corrected course with his hand, and pushed in. He felt some manner of resistance then, and homed in.

The first pass made his toes curl. It was so tight and warm and the pressure was so perfect that he felt like coming then and there. But he knew he couldn't; he knew he wanted it to last. Bending low he kissed Merlino's nape, nosed his scalp. It was ticklish, but the sensation was good and it staved off orgasm.

In a rhythm dictated by his hips, by nature, he slipped in and out, flesh catching here and there. For each little snag, for each moment of friction, Arturo shivered. This was so good it was enough to undo him at his core. For a second he thought he might die of it, but of course he didn't. A hand anchored at Merlino's hips, he nudged in and out, panting noisily.

Smothering kisses on Merlino's nape, a leg curled wide of Merlino, the other supplying leverage, he thrust in short bursts. He came with a cry he only half buried in Merlino's shoulder.

****

As they cooled down, they shimmied and moved. Arturo took his weight off Merlino and lay down next to him.

“Are you happy?” Merlino asked him, looking him in the eye.

“Yes.” Arturo would have liked to scream that at the top of his lungs but he had enough dignity not to. “I'm content.”

Merlino pinched his side. “Content?” He stuck a foot in between Arturo's. “Is that all?”

“I may revise if you give yourself to me again.” As bargaining went, this was a poor example. But Arturo thought he could be forgiven for his mislaying of his trading skills. 

“I'm awfully sore.” Merlino smiled. “How about you give yourself to me?”

“We need to parley about that.” When Merlino made a face, Arturo added, “But I'm sure the right agreement can be reached.”

Then Merlino said, “Let's make good on that one.”

*****

Madonna Ginevra entered the room, her veil, pinned to her hair by invisible pins, trailing the floor. It was red with gold spun into it and flowers decorating the hems. Rosehip, they were and dainty and beautiful too. Madonna Ginevra halted, held up her Bible tight, and lifted her gaze to Arturo and Merlino.

“I'm glad to find you're well,” Madonna Ginevra said. “And that you suffered no ill consequence from your bout of illness.”

They were both aware Merlino's wasn't an illness. But that was something that even in the wake of Ginevra's warning could not be acknowledged publicly.

“I was fortunate.” Merlino held his head high. “Arturo found a good physician who had an apt remedy.”

“I'm glad.” Ginevra walked closer. “But I hope you've taken precautions.”

“Against such illnesses?” Arturo asked. “Of course we have.”

Ginevra bit her lip and nodded. “Are you leaving Florence?”

“No.” That would be a sign of weakness their rivals, be they Medici or Pazzi or Cavalcanti or the Bueris, would snatch up. If they weren't backed up by power, they'd be wiped from the face of Florence, of Tuscany, of existence. “We'll stay here. The branch will stay open and Merlino will direct it.”

Merlino whipped around, his face blanching. “Arturo, we didn't talk about this.”

“No.” Arturo couldn't avoid acknowledging this. “But I've thought about it.”

Irrespective of Ginevra's presence, Merlino grabbed his hand. “Are you leaving Florence?”

“No!” Merlino couldn't suspect Arturo of that. Of making promises he wouldn't keep. He made a pact with him by laying with him and he wasn't going to betray it. He wasn't like that. “I'll stay. But I won't oversee the bank here. You will.”

“But why would you stay then?” Merlino's eyes widened.

If Merlino needed to ask that question they were at odds, terribly mismatched in purpose. He answered in the only guise he was allowed with Ginevra present. “Because I have commitments and obligations here.” Merlino seemed to understand because a smile slowly bloomed on his lips. “I will start planning the opening of another branch.” They started in Prato. They were now in Siena, Arezzo, and Lucca. It was time to expand towards Mantova and the North. “I will reside here and conduct the family business from my office, but Merlino will oversee the offices of this branch now Gaius is retiring.”

“That seems like a sound idea,” Ginevra said. “My father was so struck by Merlino's abilities he said he would only entrust his money to the bank he worked for.”

“I was perhaps slow to recognise Merlino's good qualities.” Of which there were many Arturo reckoned. “But I'm glad I know what an asset I have.”

“So all's well that ends well?” Ginevra asked. “In spite of everything?”

God had spared them, and so it was. “Indeed. We'll temper our actions with prudence from now on. But we won't let others dictate the course of them.”

“I think we should celebrate.” Ginevra lowered her eyes, but there was a smile on her face.

“In that case,” Arturo said, “I shall call for wine.”

When the wine arrived on an ornate silver tray, Arturo poured it himself in three goblets. Each of them took one, hoisted it up in the air, and said, “To the Draghi bank!”

“To the Draghis!”

 

The End.


End file.
